Love Lingers, Lost
by KatsWords141
Summary: The beginning of the end; when innocence is led down the path of darkness... Sometimes fairy tales are not always what they seem and often twisted into unrecognizable states of actuality. This is a peek into two such intertwining tales. Rumple/OC
1. Prologue

**Love Lingers, Lost  
><strong>A Once Upon a Time Tale  
>By; KatsWords141<p>

**A.N. Because of how the first season ended, and how the second season started, I've decided to do some chapter swapping and change a few scenes to make the story just a tad more cannon. Now, naturally, any events that include my OC violate cannon, but I am trying my best not to change fixed points in time...er, so to speak. ANNNNDDDD, I know that it may seem a tad confusing at first, but bear with me! I promise I wont disappoint... Mkay, so hopefully ya'll like the changes! Enjoy! **

**Disclaimer**; No... no. Mis'er Superman no here...

_"You come to love, not by finding the perfect person, but by seeing an imperfect person, perfectly." ~Sam Keen_

**Prologue**

Her ears were ringing. The spinning sensation was beginning to slow to a stop, but the pain in chest was steady. Gwendolyn shuddered, finally opening her eyes and allowing the skewed blur of the world to come back into focus. Using her hands to push herself up from the cold, stone floor; she spit out the thick, metallic taste that lingered in her mouth. Staring down at the sticky red substance that had come from her lips, Gwen shakily rose to her feet, and stifled a pained sigh.

"_Do not forget about us, little one…" _

Gwen lifted her hand to her side, attempting to stem the warm blood that drained from beneath her torn tunic. Taking a deep breath, her eyes quickly scanned the brightly colored nursery. The nameless soldier that had rushed her was lying face down on the floor by her feet. Gwen swallowed back the knot in her throat and forced her feet to move.

The magical wardrobe stood, un-phased by the commotion that had gone on after Gwen had placed baby Emma within its confines. But Gwen's eyes scanned the base of the wooden trunk, anxiously searching for the one thing that might have saved her from this slash in her side. Carefully bending, one hand on her side, her fingers brushed the ground—for it would not be the first time her eyes failed her. Alas, the smooth stone floor and rough roots of the wardrobe provided no comfort; no stray object rested around its perimeter. Gwen stood, leaning heavily against the tall trunk: it was no use-she must have dropped it into the wardrobe with Emma when the Evil Queen's soldier surprised her. If she had, the delicately carved branch would now be with the child in the 'land without magic', useless and ordinary.  
>Gwendolyn cursed silently to herself...<p>

She could hear the faint clatter of metal weapons echoing from the other sections of the castle. Snow's resistance had proved to be an utter bloodbath; the Evil Queen's men out numbered Snows' ten to one. Not a single mortal was resistant to magic, however, and that at least had allowed Gwen to complete her one assigned job without much opposition. Gwen's promise had been fulfilled, she had done all she could to aid her queen. But it was not to Snow White that she'd pled her allegiance to; she had long sworn to _him_ that the baby would be kept safe.

Gwendolyn stumbled across the room, stray tears of pain nearly blinding her. She didn't bother grabbing the, now dead, dark soldier's weapon—she didn't know how to really use it anyway. It had been a sheer miracle that she had come out on top of their scramble in the first place. The heavy metal of his sword would have just slowed her down.

The stairs leading to ground floor were within her sights, and she held fast to railing with a free hand before descending. Gwen could feel the life slowly seep from her with every step, but she would be damned to die without seeing his silly old face, one last time.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

The cavern's corridor was eerily deserted and dark. Gwen struggled to lift one of the lit torches from the sconce on the wall. It had appeared as if the others, down the way, had long burned out. Forcing herself to continue forward, Gwen limped to the only cage at the very end. _Just a little further_, she cooed to herself.

When its teeth-like bars finally came into view, her heart stopped—with her feet—until a figure in the shadow of the prison stirred and stepped forward to clutch at the bars.

Gwen could have let out a breathy laugh, were it not for the stitch in her side. Dropping the heavy torch to the floor, she listened to it clank and roll to a stop. The flames flickered, but did not go out.

She awkwardly dragged herself near the cage and leaned herself against the wall beside them. The great weight on her shoulders eased; finally, she could rest.

The lone torch provided a soft glow within the circular room, tossing dancing silhouettes of the long dead upon any surface. The dirt singed and crackled under the dull flames.

Rumpelstiltskin clambered along the thick bars until he was as close as he could get to her. Peering out of his prison at Gwendolyn, he crouched slowly with her, as she slid down to the floor using her hands for support against the wall and the stone bars.

"The Castle's under siege." She whispered, once her shaking legs settled out before her. Gwen lolled her head to the side to better look her old friend.

"Yes, _yes_. But Emma…?" He inquired eagerly, gesturing with his long, gold fingers through his cage.

Gwen blinked at him and swallowed back the taste of blood in her mouth. "I made sure that she made it."

His wide irises stared at her for a long moment. "Then… why are you _here_?"

"Thought," She started, throwing him a forced smile, "I could make one last attempt to break you out."

Rumpelstiltskin squinted at her, scrutinizing. "You never were very good at lying." He whispered, not falling for her feeble attempt to dodge the real reason for her sudden appearance.

She smirked, and slowly rolled her head on the wall, leaving his knowing gaze. She did her best to hide the misting in her eyes. The insistent throbbing in her side was beginning to fan out to her chest and legs. The long trek from the castle was catching up with her. "I belong _here_." She answered quietly after a long moment of silence between them.

"That is precisely why I told you where you have to be when the curse overtakes—"

"—With _you_." Gwen finished, her voice straining beneath his. "I belong with you."

Rumpelstiltskin went from his crouch to the ground, crossing his legs, his eyes never leaving her.

By his silence, Gwen knew he was taken-aback by her response. She moistened her lips, and clarified. "By your side." Her hand tightened its pressure on her wounded side as she watched the flames of the forgotten torch. The flickering light taunted her; _you are not visiting his prison_, it told her, _you have come to your tomb_.

"Gwendolyn..."

"This curse…" She interrupted, catching his softened stare. "What's going to happen to us?"

He didn't even skip a beat. "It will rob us of our 'happily ever after's'."

Gwen laughed, but a wetness in her chest stole it away into a cough. "So, will we just be extra miserable then?"

Rumpelstiltskin remained silent, watching her struggle to regain her breath. "Are you not happy?"

Slouching nearer to the cage, Gwen rested her head against the bars. Her tunic and trousers stuck to her skin and the sticky blood trickled onto the dirt floor. She was so tired...  
>Swallowing, Gwen tried to fight back the tears as she confessed her heart to him. "Are you kidding?" It was disheartening, Gwen realized, as she was unable to raise her voice beyond a whisper. "I've never been more content." Her weary eyes sought his golden orbs, and she chewed nervously on her dry lips. "That doesn't mean I'm meant to have a happy <em>ending<em>, though."

The air was starting to thicken, and it began to become more difficult to draw deep breathes. She could taste the electricity in the air, a clear sign that the curse was close to being upon them.

He whispered her name before reaching through the bars to caress her face. "You were free to leave me long ago, dearie…"

"I _know_." Her eyes closed as she relished what would possibly be his last touch. "But I _can't_. Can't you see that I _can't_?" She hiccupped as the sobs threatened to break through. It was all becoming too much; her body wanted to reel in both emotional and physical pain, but didn't have the strength.

His hand turned her face up to his, but she did not open her eyes to him.

"I…" She choked out, "I love y—"

Before she could finish, his hand slipped behind her head and he pressed his soft lips against hers. Gwen's eyes flew open and caught his gaze as he pulled himself closer to her, kissing her as though there were no bars between them. Shakily, she used what last strength she had to take her hand from her side and gently hold his face to hers. The blood that stained her hand trailed streaks of bright red on his gold cheek.

Gwen felt his arms wrap tightly around her, and she felt the cold stone bars against her body. The sensation on her lips was enough to send a spark down her spine, but her stomach knotted and sank. Her vision blurred—he blurred. It was time, though Gwen fought to stay. The ground began to rumble and the faint light from that lone torch flickered out.

The air escaped her lungs and refused to bring it back.

When he called her name, his voice vibrated against her cheeks. "I _will_ find you in that world. That, I swear."

And too soon, before she could tighten her hold on him, the only sensation she was left with was that temporary spark from her chapped lips.


	2. Chapter 1

**Love Lingers, Lost**  
>A Once Upon A Time Tale<p>

_A.N: If you're getting a notification about a new chapter...this one! Then I highly recommend going back to the prologue, I had to make some changes... Also, I've had a LOT of thought go into this story. Hopefully you will all see that in my writing, I know it's not as good as Edward Kitsis and Adam Horowitz's delicious stuff, but this is my best plotting as of yet... Go on... you know you want to guess who Gwen really is... ;) _

**Chapter One  
>[<strong>**Happily Ever After: 266 years prior to Curse]**

Once upon a time, in a small village on the edge of the Enchanted Forest, the sun slowly rose over the Eastern Horizon. In the middle of the village, there sat a modest hut with a thatched roof. A small chicken coop had been built up against this modest hut; where clucking hens and a protective cockerel stretched their legs in the ethereal morning light. As this world sluggishly woke to face the chores of the day, a horse—in a lean-to around the back of this shack—peaked out of his stall to quietly observe passerby's.

The routine crowing was more than enough to wake Gwendolyn—serving as sudden reminder to the start of her own daily schedule. With a yawn, she pulled her arms up over her head, resting her palms against the lids of her eyes as she arched. The damned bed never ceased to rob her of a decent night's sleep. Groaning at her sore back, she took the spare moment to breathe in the familiar scent of her father's stone hut: straw, the faint linger of smoke, and the hint of freshly butchered chicken.

Entwined with the comforting smell of home, Gwen noted that the morning air was also damp; tell-tale signs of rainfall sometime during the night. As she ran her fingers atop the wool covers and her pillow, checking for any indications that the roof above her bed had leaked, she allowed herself a smile. Her father's patchwork last spring seemed to be holding up. That, at least, would be a positive sign to her day.

Once she was content with the dry bedding, Gwen fumbled around the edge of the bedframe for her walking stick. It was a thin piece of oak, not intended to bear significant weight. When the neatly carved rod was firmly in her hands, she slid her feet over the straw mattress. Reluctant to begin her day, Gwen calmed her thoughts and imagined her father sitting at the stove cooking breakfast: but only a pang of sadness—not reassurance—crept over her skin. Her cold bare toes curled reflexively in the cold dirt. Lingering in the past would cause nothing but agony, Gwendolyn decided, brushing away the harrowing thoughts and forcing herself to stand. Using the stick for guidance around the long-ago memorized house, she quickly found fresh clothes and shoes for herself.

Gwendolyn pushed open the door to the hut and did not conceal a grin when the sun's rays kissed her face. She reached up to comb her fingers through her hair, moving the long locks over one shoulder. From her spot here in the crooked doorframe she could hear the normal rustle and bustle of the small village, and the pitter-patter of the hungry chickens nearby. Young children ran and played in the livestock fields to her left, while their parents went about business as usual—tending to their gardens, shearing sheep, milking cattle, baking bread—

"Mornin' Gwen!"

A cart and horse had begun to pass on the dirt path in front of her house, probably on their way to the market; Gwen recognized the voice that had called out to her, for the man had been a long-time family friend. "Good morning, Lysander." She returned, nodding in his direction.

"I'm heading into town." He called from the seat of his cart; pulling his horse to a stop and turning in his seat to better address her. "I was hoping you'd barter some eggs with me when I returned?"

Gwen smiled, taking her stick and slowly moving towards him. He was only a several feet away, as she gathered from the strong scent of his horse. When her stick hit the solid wheel of his wagon, she reached her hand up and rested it on the edge of the wooden bench. "You know my price." She winked, playfully.

"You and your cheese." Lysander laughed, patting her hand. His palms were dry and rough from working in the fields all his life. "I suppose I can manage to bring you back a few loafs, my love." He snapped the leather reins, urging his horse forward, but watching carefully to make sure Gwen stepped back. The last thing he wanted to do was run the poor girl over.

Her smile continued to caress her cheeks. Since her father had passed, she had hardly made her own way to the market to trade goods. She was ever thankful for those in the village who were willing to bring her provisions—or in this case, cater to her cravings. On that thought; "The _sharp_ cheddar!" Gwen called after him, before he drove off too far. "Don't let them talk you into the shite from Jotunheim, again!"

She heard the man laugh, but his cart continued onward down the long road.

"Giants just can't make decent cheese." Gwen muttered to herself, tapping her stick gently against the ground.

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Holding the heavy cloth bag close to her body with one arm, Gwen took carefully counted steps down the worn path through the village. The sun was beating down today, and her thick skirt provided her legs with little comfort or draft from the heat. She had loosened the top button on her blouse while rummaging through her small chicken coup, and though she was wary of the amount of collarbone showing, it was much too warm to fret over modesty.

A child–with the shrill voice and the distinctive fluttering skirt of a girl–ran past Gwen, nearly knocking the walking stick from her hand. Arm tightening around the bag at her chest in refusal to drop what she was carrying, Gwendolyn steadied herself. She did not chide the oblivious girl; though the thought crossed her mind.

"Baelfire!" The young girl laughed heartedly, skidding to a stop in the dirt. "Come and play!"

After gathering her bearings, Gwen moseyed those few meters forward, not needing to finish counting her steps as the young girl had addressed the very house Gwen was making her way to.

"I can't." Baelfire's voice was easily discernible. As she moved nearer, she could hear something soft rustling in his lap; most likely he was stuffing freshly sheared wool into a bag. In all her years, she'd never considered the boy anything but sweet, and seemingly above his age in many aspects—fairly like his late mother.  
>"I'm helping father." He whispered, clearly worried that Rumpelstiltskin might overhear; Gwen had known that the two had struggled since the abduction of Baelfire's mother, and he was doing all that he could to aid his father in the chores that sustained them.<p>

"You're always _working_." The young girl pouted, scooting to the blind woman beside her. She allowed Gwen to pat her on the top of the head, and looked up—with undoubtedly pleading eyes, wishing for Gwen to express similar sympathies. Despite her efforts, Gwen did not offer her own thoughts on the matter.

Baelfire muttered under his breath something that the young child did not catch; and something that Gwen did not intend to repeat.

"Go on," Gwendolyn shooed quietly to the girl; listening for the tiny feet to scurry off before placing the butt of her walking stick atop her own boot. She rubbed her cheek against the smooth wood and smiled in Baelfire's direction. The young girl had been right; Rumpelstiltskin should demand his son partake in more childlike activities. However, she of all people understood what it was like to struggle jointly with grief and financial stability. "Is your father in?" Gwen addressed to Bae.

She could hear Baelfire set aside what was in his lap and stand from the seat he'd been resting on. "Yeah, he's spinning inside." He replied, "Want me to fetch him?"

Gwen shook her head and held out the bag she'd been holding. "Actually," she told him, as he came forward to take the satchel from her. "If I'm not intruding, I'd very much like to speak with him." The large eggs in the bag rattled as Baelfire tucked them under his arm. "Would you walk me in?"

"Sure." Baelfire answered, more cheerfully.

His long hair brushed the top of her shoulder as he took her arm. The boy was getting tall; in fact, his fourteenth birthday was readily approaching within the next few weeks. She fought to refrain from furrowing her eyebrows; the soldiers would come for him soon, to join in the fight against the Ogres. Gwen dreaded that day just as much as Baelfire's father.

Ignorant of Gwen's innate sentiments toward his family, Baelfire slowly helped her into his house, careful to remind her about the slight upheaval of the threshold. Gwen had tripped over it once before; and Baelfire had never heard the end of it from his father. "Papa!" He called, carefully leading the blind woman into their cramped living area. "Gwen has brought us fresh eggs!"

"What a wonderful surprise." Rumpelstiltskin voiced from the other side of the room. He stood stiffly from his wheel and limped over, his own cane scraping on the dirt floor. Gwen could hear the smile in his words, and feel the warmth of sincerity when he took her hand to relieve Baelfire to tend to the satchel under his arm. "To what do we owe this kindness?"

As she suspected, he'd realized that her weekly barter with him was early. "I was hoping I could have a moment of your time?" Gwen tossed him a smile, indulging in the familiar smell that wafted from him and from his house: loose wool, forest, baked apples and smoldering wood.

"Of course." Rumpelstiltskin didn't hesitate to gently lead her off to the left. "Please, sit." He requested, after a short moment. His strong accent never failed to charm her, and she had always wondered if his parents had immigrated down from the North.

Gwen's hand snuck behind her to feel for the chair that he'd implied was there. Once her palm touched the smooth wood of a stool, she slowly lowered herself to it. "Thank you."

It sounded like Rumpelstiltskin was dragging something close; likely another stool. "I can give you a spool of wool—" she heard his clothing ruffle as he sat across from her. He sniffled, probably from a recovering cold.

She frowned, chewing on her lip: it bothered her that he was so business-like to her, even in the confines of his own home.  
>Her mannerism must have been enough to cause him pause, for he didn't finish his offer. "I'm leaving in a few days." Gwen told him, fiddling with the walking stick she'd drawn up across her lap. The idea to venture off had struck her several weeks ago, but she had not voiced her plans to anyone until now.<p>

Rumpelstiltskin was silent for a long while, and then he sighed, rubbing at his bad leg. "Where?"

It was a fair enough question, but Gwen felt guilty about her reasons for departing. "If you can care for my chickens," Gwen replied, dodging his inquiry. "Any eggs they lay while I am away are yours. I've allocated a few to Lysander, but I promise those damn things will give you more eggs than you'll know what to do with—"

"_Gwen_!" He reached out to cup her shoulder, stopping her rant. "I will care for your chickens." Rumpelstiltskin let out a breathy laugh, his hand rubbing down her arm. "Just tell me; _where_ are you going to go?"

Gwendolyn wetted her lips, nervously; she had known Rumpelstiltskin for many years, so the concern was not unwarranted, and yet she found it so hard to explain matters very close to her heart. "The Western realms." She answered, after a quiet reflection.

For years, Gwen's father spoke of a man in the West that had unmatched powers of sorcery. This man, her father had told her, had the power to allow her sight. Though Gwen had been born blind, and had been mostly able to care for herself, it had proved to be a burden on her family. No man of merit wanted a wife that could not alone take care of her children and household—no man was willing to pay a significant dowry to her family in exchange for her hand. And naturally, because of her lack of sight, Gwen—unlike Rumpelstiltskin— was not asked to part-take in the Ogre wars when the villagers had been drafted. However, despite the everyday inconveniences, Gwen had no desire to see—not until the Duke demanded children fight in the Ogre wars.

She had grown up with Rumpelstiltskin, played in the same fields, attended his wedding to Milah and the birth of their child. Not only did Gwen owe Rumpelstiltskin for his friendship in spite of her handicap, but Baelfire was the closest thing she had to a child of her own. And this ability to see might yet allow her to save him from fighting—and undoubtly dying—in the wars.

Rumpelstiltskin withdrew his hand, his lips parting, but before he could say what was on his mind, Gwen interrupted his train of thought.

"My father's horse knows the merchant trails by heart." She explained, agitated and rubbing at her nose with the back of her hand: Gwen was well aware of her disability and its limitations, but rarely did that stop her once an idea took hold. "I have a plan—"

She heard him draw an exasperated breath of air, "Those roads are _dangerous_." He warned, his voice low. "The wars are raging too near them—"

"I _know_." Gwen whispered, jadedly. Despite knowing that he did not return whatever affections she had once attempted to voice in the past, there was a part of her heart that tightened when he showed his concerns. It would have been so very tempting to believe that he had a genuine worry for her. "If I don't return, the chickens are yours to do with as you please—"

"If you don't return?!" Rumpelstiltskin repeated, brashly. Then, quieter, he continued as if he'd leaned forward near her. Suddenly a different kind of unease lined his words; "When did you start speaking that way?"

The air was beginning to thicken between them. Deep seated emotions threatened to bubble to the surface, but—like countless times before—Gwen forced them down into the pit of her stomach. She hadn't really meant for her words to seem dark, but the best case scenario did _not_ involve Gwen returning home to stay. "I promise you'll at least hear from me in two weeks' time." She told him finally, unwilling to unearth old wounds.

An awkward silence fell over them, and Rumpelstiltskin cleared this throat. She heard his nails gently scratch against his skull, as if he was running a hand through his hair. Gwen was about to rise from her seat when Rumpelstiltskin shifted. "Bae's birthday is nearing." Gwen caught the waver in his voice; he knew he did not have to remind her of that fact. She had been involved in their lives far too long to forget. A small part of her could not help but wonder if that was his way of saying: I cannot risk losing both of you.

Her restless fingers abandoning the stick on her lap, her feet balanced her on the edge of her chair as she scooted forward, their knees lightly grazing. Judging by the sound of his breathing, the warmth of his body, Gwen allowed her hesitant hands to find his careworn face. As she did so, his soft hair caressed her wrist and tickled the back of her hand. It had been awhile since her fingers had last traced out his facial contours, and though he had a few extra worry lines around his eyes, her memory of him had not changed. Gwendolyn held him and offered a comforting smile.  
>"You <em>must<em> trust me." She whispered with confidence. "We won't let them take Baelfire."

Rumpelstiltskin nodded, his lips twitching to form a half-smile.

"One more thing." Gwen smirked.

He made a noise in his throat. "Hmm."

She breathed him in deeply before dropping her hands from his warm cheeks and shifting herself back into her chair. "In exchange for eggs, Lysander's bringing me back cheddar from the market. Don't. Eat. It." She scolded playfully, delivering a modest poke to his chest with her walking stick.

"I wouldn't dare!" His homely, breathy laugh would remain steadfast in the back of her mind, for the rest of Gwen's days.


	3. Chapter 2

**Love Lingers, Lost  
><strong>A One Upon a Time FairyTale

Chapter Two  
><strong>[Happily Ever After-266 years prior to Curse]<strong>  
><strong>Three Weeks Later<strong>

Gwendolyn crouched at the stream, stretching her sore legs. The constant rush of water should have been comforting. But her chest felt tight, and she clawed at the broach holding her cloak around her neck. It had been a long ride home, despite driving her poor horse to his limits. Her fathers' horse wasn't built to run great distances—he was a Draft horse—but Gwen had no choice. The allotted time she was going to spend in the West turned out not to be enough. And now, because of that, Gwen was running far behind schedule.  
>Her lips quivered and she dipped her hands into the cold water, her frizzy hair falling over her shoulders. Wet fingers caressing her hot cheeks, she stood.<p>

Baelfire's birthday had passed, two days ago.

Gwen let her hands trail down to her throat, where a knot was beginning to form. She had been unable procure the name and location of the man who could restore her sight and thusly fulfill her plan ensure Baelfire's safety. Of course, Gwen's ears undoubtedly caught the whispered rumors of a 'dark one' that held powers beyond any mortal, but there was not a single person that could aid her search further.

The smooth stones of the riverbank clattered under the hooves of her father's horse. He had meandered along beside her, leaning his great head down to lap at the cool, refreshing water. Drinking his fill, he snorted and shook out his sweaty mane; his bridle clanking with the movement.

"Just a bit further." She promised him, tying back her hair with a thin leather strap that had presided around her wrist. He turned his head to her, pressing his nose into her chest, his lips still dripping with water. Gwen knew he was exhausted. The village was not far now, perhaps a little under five miles, judging by her memory.

A part of her warned her that returning home would only cause heartbreak; knowing that little Baelfire would likely not survive to see her again. It seemed terribly cowardly to forsake her promise to return, though. Rumpelstiltskin needed her friendship and comfort, no matter how dreadfully powerful the flight tempted her.

Angrily wiping the tears that were building in her eyes, Gwen mounted her horse. Once in the saddle, her thighs protested, and she roughly rubbed her palms against them in attempt to relieve the sore muscles. She could not help but feel that Baelfire's fate had been placed in her hands, and that she had let it fall through her fingers. Rumpelstiltskin had trusted her. And she'd failed.

"Let's go home." She whispered, giving the reins a firm tug, leading him away from the stream. His hooves were loud against the stones before he hiked up the slight incline to the side of the dirt trail. Gwendolyn urged him into a trot; and he did his best, despite the exhaustion.

The jostling forced her to stand in the saddle, and she tried to enjoy the smell and sounds of the forest around her: Birds chirping happily in the late afternoon sky, a breeze swirling around in the leaves overhead, the creaking of tree trunks, and the steady four-step beat of the horse's gait beneath her. It was a welcome peace to the recent looped pattern of her self-deprecating thoughts.

The air suddenly turned much warmer as she rode out of the shadowy comfort of overhanging trees. However, as the sun kissed her face, a discomforting smell reached her. The forest must have masked it, but out in the open the scent was unmistakable: smoke.

Gwen knew in her heart that the village was within sight. A sense of fear struck her, and she wished that for just a moment, she could be able to discern from whence it came.  
>She pulled her horse to a skidding stop. He opposed the sudden command, lifting his head with endeavors to wrench the reins from her grasp. But with gentle cooing from Gwen, he ultimately stood pawing at the ground, breathing through his nose to try to catch his breath.<p>

The smoke that had reached her nose was not simply wood from a few contained fires; it was much stronger. Straw and flesh and wood and crops. No matter which direction she turned her nose, the stench rolled in thick layers atop the air. The wind _could_ have carried it for miles from the neighboring village, Gwen pondered nervously, perhaps…

An infallible, leisurely clicking of leather boots on the empty trail directly ahead caught Gwen's ears: she twisted, perking up in the saddle to listen.

Her father's horse began side-stepping—unnerved by the oncoming stranger—but Gwen tightened her hold on his reigns and steadied him. "Hello?" Gwen called out. It wasn't the first time she'd not detected the presence of a person, and it _definitely_ would not be the last. This person nearing her, Gwen concluded, must have at least hiked through her town. "The smell of smoke, pray tell; is it coming from the village up the road?"

The footsteps slowed. Turning her ear slightly towards the stranger, she expected them to reply to her calls: they did not.

Without ample warning, her horse reared up, whinnying in fright and striking out with his front legs. Her sore thighs did not have time to tighten their grip about his ribs, and the reins slid from her flailing hands as she tumbled backwards. Gwen cried out as she felt her back crash to the hard ground but as her head whipped against something solid; her world was thrust into silence.

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Her head was pounding unmercifully. While the world around Gwen slowly began to reappear, the sound of crickets singing grew in her ears. The left half of her body was warm; a crackling fire nearby surely responsible. While trying to rationalize what had happened, it occurred to Gwen that she was not in the spot she'd fallen. Gwen squeezed the soft moss beneath her fingers; where there should have been dry dirt. The forest once again reverberated around her. She had been moved. Gwen could hear her own heartbeat increase through her throbbing headache, and fear coursed through her suddenly cold veins.

"Ahh…" A playful male voice cooed. "The rider awakens."

Gwen pushed herself up onto her elbows, almost immediately regretting it after her head began to spin almost uncontrollably. "Who are you?" She choked out, her voice dry and hoarse.

"A friend." The man replied, a clear grin in his words. Gwen, however, did not recognize his voice. He had a confidently deep toned voice, and a slight accent, similar to Rumpelstiltskin's—probably obtained from spending a liberal amount of time in the North, as well.

Gwen's own train of thought brought back exactly what had happened with her horse, and the agony associated with her journey home. "I really should be getting back to my village." She told him firmly, wetting her lips and sluggishly sitting up. The spiraling sensation increased; nausea washing over her. Gwen let out a groan, reaching up to grasp her head. There was a tender lump in the back under her tangled hair. With the fall, she must have smacked her head fairly hard.

His clothing rustled as he moved closer… or shifted. With all the spinning, it was reasonably difficult for her to pin-point his movements. Cold metal touched her knuckles, reflexively Gwen recoiled. However, when the man pushed it against her hand once more and made a noise in the back of his throat, she explored the object with her fingers: a flask. Graciously twisting open the lid, Gwen wafted the bottle under her nose. It was definitely not water. But her mouth was parched and dry.

Gwen coughed as the liquid burned down her throat. She held the flask away from her until the man plucked it from her.

"Your village is no more." He whispered, harshly.

Her back was cooling from loss of contact with the warm moss, and the fire no longer felt as warm as when she had awoken. As Gwen digested his words, the memory of the stale smoke still lingered in her throat and nose. She took a deep breath of the refreshing forest air before replying. "What do you mean?"

"It's been consumed by the wars, dearie."

Her cloak once again was too tight, Gwen pulled at the broach, unhooking it and gathering the cloth bundle into her arms. She sat it in her lap and played with the seams. Had she not dawdled behind in the West, Gwen might have at least gotten to hold the two men that she had left in her life, one last time. "Were there survivors?" She asked after a moment, fearing the answer.

She heard him take a swig of the alcohol. "Eh, several." Gwen felt him scrutinize her. "What's it to you?"

Rumpelstiltskin had a bad leg. He had been considered a coward to most in the village because of his past. If anyone was able to escape, Gwen would not assume him one. Her lip quivered, and she reached a hand up to cover her mouth. She shook her head in a simple reply.

"You've traveled far." The man commented. He stood and precisely stepped away to her right. "Your horse was evident of _that_."

Gwen wanted to kick herself. Of course, her horse! She could not grasp why his whereabouts had slipped her mind. "Where is he?"

"Ran off; the devil wouldn't let me touch him."

Her father's horse was anything but skittish. Normally he wandered right up to the first being to grant him attention. Something about this man had surely frightened him—something not seen by human eyes. But without her horse, she had no way of knowing which way to travel, should she require an escape. "Where am I?" Gwen asked, skeptically. The air seemed to tingle against her skin, though she was unsure of whether it could have been the man in her presence, or from her immense headache.

"Safe." He answered shortly. Gwen opened her mouth to speak, but he interrupted. "I took the liberty of moving you to somewhere, more… comfortable, than the trail."

Gwen had a difficult time reading this man's less expressive voice; making it near impossible to tell if he meant her harm. "Thank you." She whispered, after a moment. She found it disturbing that she'd been awake for several minutes, and not once had the man asked for her name—albeit elusive about his own. "I'm called Gwendolyn, by-the-way."

Silence followed her words, and Gwen swiveled her head to try and determine where the man was standing—the tranquil crickets song increased in speed, the crackling and spitting of the fire, and the haunting hoot of owls, disturbed her already challenging ability to fix on his position.

"I know." Finally came his reply.

His mysterious statement delivered an eerie chill down her spine. If he knew her, why did she not recognize his voice, Gwen mused. "How could you, possibly?" The thought of him being a friend of her father's crossed her mind; but the man did not declare himself as such. On the other hand, any person wishing her harm would have _already_ done her harm.  
>The tingling sensation returned to the surface of her skin, and gradually the realization dawned upon her: she, in fact, <em>did<em> know who this man was. "You're the Dark One." Gwen uttered.

"Merely a name." He breathed out.

It was more than enough of a confirmation for her. Through all of her searching, _he_ came to _her_. She could have laughed at the irony of her situation. "I've been looking for you." Gwen settled on saying, as she rested her elbows on her drawn knees.

"Is that so?" The inflection in his words played a different tune. He seemed almost amused as he shuffled back around to his spot across from her.

She nodded, and quirked half a smile. "For what it's worth, anymore."

"Magic can be pricey." He was fiddling with his flask again; taking another swig.

"I was willing to pay whatever you asked." Gwen told him, truthfully.

He let out a sharp breath of air, relishing the burn of the alcohol, no doubt. "But not now?" He questioned.

The village was destroyed, and with it, the people she cared about, the purpose of making a deal with the Dark One in the first place was senseless now.  
>Gwen assumed that he would be watching her, she so gave him a slight shake of her head before reaching up and attempting to smooth out her hair. The locks had gone a bit wild and slipped from the leather band since her last stop at the river bank.<p>

"I can give you what you've always wanted." The Dark One cooed, voice low and menacing.

Gwen worried her bottom lip. She had heard stories of men being brought back to life and the horrors that followed. She was not willing to make others suffer at her own selfish extent. But… It did not stop Gwen from wondering just what would have been his asking price had she found the Dark One in time to reach Baelfire. "_Hypothetically_," She started, "What would you ask of me?"

"_Simple_." The Dark One answered, drawing out his reply. "I've recently become in need of a consort—a messenger, if you will."

A frown caressed her cheeks, she was not sure she had heard him correctly. "A messenger?"

He hummed in reply. "In the near future, I will have need of someone to deliver a few admonishes for me."

His request did not seem as terrible as the rumors of his cruelty had originally led her to believe, however, while it was a condition Gwen might have gladly accepted in the past, she knew presently—should Bae no longer be with them in this world—her wish would be null void...

"It's a fair deal, dearie;" He snapped, when her silence undoubtedly caused him anxiety. "Sight for a few quick errands."

Gwen's brows furrowed. "And what if, what I want no longer applies to my situation?"

The Dark One stirred, sliding closer; a more impish air about him. "Ooooo, you have my attention..."

"There was a young boy in my village—"

He drew back, suddenly. "I cannot make someone love you." The Dark One barked.

"That's not what I'm asking at all!" She retorted, frowning. "This boy, he is to me, as any child of my own. I was going request my sight from you, in order to trade my own life for his so that he would not be forced to fight in the wars."

"A noble request." He sniffed, allotting himself a moment to contemplate her whim. "And you fear he has perished while you were dillydallying." He commented, coldly.

"I was looking for _you_." Gwendolyn responded through clenched teeth.

Her words gave him pause, one that seemed longer than necessary—a pause that roused her skepticism. "Who?" He whispered. "What is this boy's name?"

"Bae." She told him, resting her chin on her drawn knees. "His name is Baelfire."

"You are indeed in luck." The Dark One declared, suddenly, with a bold air of someone gesturing grandly. "I have knowledge of his whereabouts; he is alive."

Despite suspicions of deception, Gwen could not stop her heart from leaping. If there was a chance this man was truly the Dark One; it was not altogether impossible to hope he spoke the truth and knew what had happened in her village before her arrival, and known who had survived. Maybe her journey had not been in complete vain. "And his father?" She tried, light-hearted.

He did not hesitate. "_Consumed_."

The news stung, yanking the pit in her stomach wider than she ever could have. Tears welled in her eyes, and a sob built in her throat. Gwen rubbed at the bridge of her nose to try and control herself. If Baelfire was alive, she would strive to keep him safe—for Rumpelstiltskin's sake.

"I'll tell you what." The Dark One bobbed, quite obviously seeing her distress. "I will grant you your sight, _and_ the guaranteed safety of the child—for a few… _extra_ …errands." He twitched, pulling out a crinkling object from either his coat or a bag. "A drop of blood is all I need." He finished, innocently.  
>The distinctive swishing of unrolling parchment reached her ears.<p>

Gwen swallowed, palms rubbing at her cheeks. In all her life, she had never been exposed to magic. However, should this man claiming to be the Dark One really possess the powers to aid her, what harm could a few errands prove? And what could she possibly lose if he was an imposter. It _was_ Bae they were talking about, and while he may be safe from the wars at the moment, she could not guarantee in her current state that she could keep him in that state—not without help.

Mind made up, Gwen searched her belt for a dagger. Her sheath was empty—the knife had not been secure in its holster, as she used it often to slice food—she could only conclude that it had fallen during her decent off the horse earlier. "Do you have a dagger?"

"Of course."

She heard the slick metal slide from his sheath, and held out her hand for it.

The hilt was clad in old soft leather, the blade curvy. Gwen's fingers traced across the face of the knife; intricately designed, it held elaborate engravings along the edge and an inscription down the middle. As Gwen was illiterate, she paid little attention to what it might have meant, and merely regarded it as aesthetic. "Baelfire will be protected from the War?" She clarified.

"_And_ you will have your sight, dearie! I dare say—it's a win, win."

She brought the sharp point hard against her palm and held her breath before briskly sliding it across her skin. It cut smoothly into her tender flesh. Gwen drew in her breath and tested the wound with the tips of her fingers: warm, sticky blood oozed from the stinging laceration.

The parchment again sounded itself before her, placed somewhere on the ground near her feet. With her free hand, she searched it out. Then, with little thought as to what actually might be on the contract, Gwendolyn flattened her bloodied palm near the bottom of the thick paper. "You have a deal, then."

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**Storybrooke, Maine**

"_Mephistopheles: I'll be your servant here, and I'll  
>Not stop or rest, at your decree:<br>When we're together, on the other side,  
>You'll do the same for me."<em>

Penelope slowly traced her fingers over the bumps in the thick paper. She had closed her eyes—mostly as a courtesy to those around her—and imagined she could hear the voices of the two men in the story. It was one of her favorite passages within the play; desperate Faust willing to confide in a stranger about the troubles in his life, and making a deal he never intended to keep. The words always drew a sharp, mysterious twist deep in Penny's heart.

The heavy, furry head that rested atop her shoes let out a loud breath, providing an ever constant reminder that Penny was not in Faust's study. Even in the rustle and bustle of the always busy café, there never failed to be times, like these, when it was difficult to separate herself from her books without a little help from her good buddy. Over the years, it had become all too easy to escape to the fairytale worlds to which Penny did not belong. _No more here, than there, I suppose, _she told herself.

As she contemplated this, a small, warm body sat down in the booth beside her. "'Morning Penny!" The young boy's backpack ruffled as he scooted closer between the table and seat.

"Good morning, Henry." Penny answered; throwing a smile in the boy's direction as she mentally bookmarked her place.

"Morning Max." Henry greeted affectionately as he bent under the table to provide the—now panting—sheepdog with a few pats on the head. Penny could hear Max's foot twitch happily against the linoleum floor.

Reaching to her right wrist, Penny flipped open the glass window on her watch and felt for the time. While she did so, Henry busily unwrapped the saran plastic off some sort of pastry he'd brought with him.  
>Max, recognizing the sound, stood from his spot under the table and shuffled to wedge his head onto Henry's lap. Penny chewed on her lip as the Mayor's boy slipped the dog a few scraps.<p>

"You may find that amusing now," She whispered, gently, before sipping at the lukewarm cup of coffee beside her book, "but just wait until I make you take him home for the night." Despite the boy's repeated attempts, poor Max had a sensitive system—something that would not likely change with time.

Henry giggled, nibbling on his breakfast as he nudged Penny playfully in the arm. "I _wish_." Truth be told, he would gladly take the dog home—regardless of stomach issues—if his mother would allow it. Regina had a strict regime, however, when it came to house pets.  
>Then, with a mouthful of pastry, Henry lightly touched the open book in front of them. "Whatcha reading?"<p>

Regina's regal voice suddenly filled the café as she reminded Ruby that her latte was to be extra hot.

Penny closed the heavy book and reached out for his hand: it was not an uncommon practice, so Henry quickly wiped his fingers on his jacket before laying his palm against hers. Carefully, Penny rested his fingers over the brail on the cover. "F-a-u-s-t." Penny spelled out for him, as she guided his hand across the title. "Faust."

"What's it about?" Lifting his free hand and taking another bite of his breakfast, Henry leaned forward to study the book further. Brail or not, he never passed up the opportunity to learn about a good book.

Max let out a breath and nudged at Penny's elbow until she brought a hand down to scratch his ears. His warm tongue lapped at her knuckles. "A depressed man," She told the boy, "who makes a deal with the devil so he can be happy." It was a simple explanation for a complicated story, but she doubted a 10 year-old boy would be terribly interested in the details—Penny remembered she sure hadn't been when her father had brought it home for her.

"Huh…" Henry bobbed, carefully considering her summary. "Kind of like Rumpelst-"

"_Henry_." Regina's scolding tone startled both of them out of their moment of peace. "I hope you're not _bothering_ Miss Porter." She did not address Penny exactly; merely one of the ways the mayor used to deploy that sense of invisibility.

Henry stumbled over his words as he swallowed what breading was in his mouth, "No, I-"

"-Not at all, Madam Mayor." Penny interrupted, vouching for him. "Henry was just curious about Faust." She quirked a smile up at the harshly-spoken woman, and raised a hand to gently clap the young boy's shoulder.

The café seemed to grow quieter, as many on-lookers chose to pause their conversations.

"Yes. Well." The mayor took a deep breath and directed her attention back to her son. "Come along; we wouldn't want you to be late for school."

Henry placed his hands on the edge of the table, dislodging himself from the booth. "See ya, Penny." He groaned.

"You too." She called after him, as he started out the door before his mother, tossing his left-over wrapper into the trash beside the entrance.

Regina tapped the table where Penny sat at with the tips of her neatly manicured nails. "Good day, Miss Porter." Her attitude was less than appreciative, her tone bordering threatening.

"Good day, madam mayor." Penny replied calmly, pulling the coffee mug closer and downing its remaining contents. Regina's perfume lingered in the air long after she left. There was something about that woman that rubbed Penny the wrong way; apparently Regina shared that sentiment.  
>Checking the time again, Penny fished out several of quarters in her jacket pocket for the coffee and tip, placing them beside her cup. Scooting out of her seat, she beckoned Max out from his spot and fumbled for the long metal handle on his chest harness.<br>Standing, Penny unclipped the sunglasses from the collar of her shirt, with one hand, and slid them onto her nose. She tucked her novel conveniently into her buttoned up jacket.

"Leaving so soon?" An instinctively seductive and pouty voice asked. Ruby's heels clicked loudly against the linoleum floor, approaching her.

"Rent to pay, bills to deliver." She quipped, as Ruby rubbed a friendly hand against her back. Ruby made a noise in the back of her throat; indicative of a chuckle. Expressing her thanks for the routine morning coffee, Penelope allowed Max to lead her out of _Granny's Diner_ and down the steps onto the sidewalk of Main Street.

The sun was shining today but the chilly, late summer air was beginning to ease its way into their little town. It was reaching the season when bundling up would become a priority. Penny murmured to herself, as she shrugged her thin jacket tighter around her. Max tested the harness, eager to continue their day.

Before she could start her half a block walk to the Post Office, a powerful male voice called to her from behind. "Ms. Porter!" There was only one person in the town with a slight Scottish hint to his words.

Penelope turned in his direction, listening as the butt of his cane ticked in unison with his rubber soled shoes. "Good morning, Mr. Gold." She prompted Max to a sit and waited for the hobbling man to approach. He stopped within a few feet of her and placed both his leather-clad hands atop his short cane. His pawn shop was down the road opposite her direction, but she could assume he was headed into the café.

"And to you." He replied, politely. It would have been inaudible to most, but he slowly caught his breath as he stood before her: his injured leg undoubtedly drew copious amounts of energy from him. "Actually, I'm quite glad I caught you." Penny heard him reach into his jacket, his fingers brushing against paper, pulling it from the inner folds of his coat. "I would very much like this letter to go out first thing this morning…"

Penny chewed on the inside of her cheek. There was no doubt; the man made her nervous—and not just because he technically had the whole town, including her house, in his pocket. "I don't start my rounds until eleven…" She tried. Max shifted on the pavement, nuzzling her leg with his snout.

"Yes, I realize." He replied, wearily. "Perhaps an exception can be made?"

Her answer did not come right away. Truthfully, Penny couldn't refuse his request as he was not the only person she favors, like this, for. With a sigh, she reached her hand out for the envelope. "When did I become your personal courier, Mr. Gold?" Penny quipped. She knew Mr. Gold paid handy-men to do his some of his bidding—could they not drop his mail off, as well?

He let out a breathy laugh, his gloved fingers lightly brushing hers as he passed the feather light letter off to her. "Much obliged, Miss Porter." Mr. Gold whispered, leaning slightly towards her, a clear smile to his dodge. The touch had sent a tingle up her arm, but one that was forcefully ignored. The man was charming, she'd grant him that. But Penny couldn't quite think of a worse socially diminishing act than to start a personal relationship with Mr. Gold. She may be blind, Penny told herself, but she was not foolish; she knew of the unsavory things he did to procure his money.

Thumb tracing over the script on the front of the letter, Penny checked to make sure it was correctly filled out and had a stamp in the right corner. She opened her mouth to throw another quip at him, but he had already turned and started up the steps into _Granny's_.

Thinking better of pestering the man, she tapped the envelope against the top of Max's head. "Ready, Freddy?" The sheep-dog licked his chops and panted heavily. Penny took that as an agreement, and urged him forward.

The signature roll in Max's body could be felt through the handle on his harness as he walked with her, but unlike most, Penny enjoyed the feel of the constant back and forth motion. Perhaps it added a little sway in her step, but regardless, tottering along with him was much more comforting than wandering with just her probing cane—she also didn't have to count her steps as much with Max; he knew exactly where she needed to go.

A building later, Max led her up the paved footpath to the entrance of her workplace. Penelope dropped the handle on his harness and sought the keys in her jacket pocket. Once unlocked, she pushed the ancient door open and bent down to detach the dogs harness, patting his rump before he bounded off to his fluffy bed and pile of raw-hides in the corner of the Post Office.

The building had the musty smell of old paper and wood floors, but of all the jobs Penny sifted through as a teenager, this was the only one she'd held on to well into adulthood. One might suggest that it was the modest seclusion, or the daily walks that peeked her interest; either way, Penelope was in her late twenties and could not imagine performing her civic duties elsewhere.

Her hands rested on her thighs as she stood, taking in the quiet serene of the small building. She could not deny her innate joy of practically running the Post Office—granted, she had a helper come in once a day to aid in chores Penny could not possibly complete—but the sense of responsibility in her life seemed to fill a mysterious void.

Penelope removed her jacket and hung it on the coat rack beside the door, smoothing out the uniform beneath. With a breath of air and the excitement of beginning a new day; Penny took carefully counted steps into the back room, listening as Max gnawed away on his spoils as she went.

Her hands came into contact with the large bin for unsorted, outgoing mail. She took one last feel of the letter Mr. Gold had passed off to her, the tips of her fingers tracing the face of the envelope. There was not a single part of her that did not wish to be able to read the cursive lettering of his penmanship—or of anyone's handwriting for that matter—Penny caught herself, reprimanding the odd stray notion. Paying her rent and finding out when it was due, were the only reasons Mr. Gold should be _ever_ caught entering her thoughts.

Shaking off the sudden twisting pit in her stomach, Penny hesitantly slid the letter over the rim of the container; allowing it to flutter soundlessly to the bottom of the plastic tub.

~.~.~.~.~

**[A.N: For those who don't know, Faust is an AMAZING classic written by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe... Bucketlist that shit.] **


	4. Chapter 3

**Love Lingers, Lost  
><strong>A One Upon a Time Fairytale

**Chapter Three  
><strong>Storybrooke

Mr. Gold glanced down at the watch upon his wrist. He cleared his throat, but it went unheard in the quiet crowded shop. Standing, his smooth hands took hold of the cane beside him and he slowly made his way around the front counter and to the far window. The sun barely penetrated through the thick windows, its skinny rays of light illuminating the fine particles of dust in the air. Mr. Gold led an immaculate business, though it always seemed like he was in constant battle with the magnetic dust qualities of his inventory and the old building.

Coming to a rest at the door, Mr. Gold fiddled with the "Open" sign and peered out into the streets. The lunch rush had started, with many of town's inhabitants hurrying from work to grab a quick bite to eat. Through this mad scurry, Mr. Gold eyes followed the unflattering blue shirt of Storybrooke's Letter Carrier. He watched from behind the door pane as Penelope and Max stopped at the Dental office across the street. Her hands disappeared into the messenger bag at her side and drew out a three envelopes—all rubber-banded together. Painstakingly, she scanned each letter with a device at her belt and waited for the confirmation on the correct address before stuffing them into the small mailbox on the side of the building.

Archie happened to be heading in the opposite direction with his Dalmatian; Pongo. The therapist stopped and exchanged a few words with her while their dogs sniffed at each other. A genuine smile caressed her pale face.

Within the cramped pawn shop, Mr. Gold's fingers tightened around the cane at his side as he scrutinized the banter. For _years_ in this cursed world he had strived agonizingly to lure her into his routine life. It was obvious that the woman he once knew was buried deep within her, but Penny's skin was thick and her suspicions of his corruption ran high. In this world, he did not have the added benefit of sharing innocent teenage years of tending farmland with her.

His lips curled around his teeth, and he did not wait for Archie to say his adieu; turning on his heel, Mr. Gold limped his way to the workroom in the back. Turning, he pulled shut the dark yellow curtains separating him from the rest of the shop. In a drawer, under large gray shelves behind his desk, there lay a folded dress. Though it trailed to the floor, the fabric was thin—torn in places—and its color still fading. He drew it from its locked confines and smoothed it over his clean, chestnut desk. It had once been a deep meadow green, with black ties in the matching girdle. Mr. Gold's eyes traced over the V-cut neck, following the seams down the long flowing sleeves. The unpleasant memory of the manner in which the dress received such disrepair drifted to the surface of his thoughts; and to avoid a moment of desolation, he forced the memory back into the vault from which it came.

The folds of the dress felt incredibly soft between his fingers. Though he was a decent seam-stress, Mr. Gold had been working for many years on repairing this dress. He dared not, however, pass off the priceless garb to the town's tailor: for if it was permanently altered in any way, there would little in this world to ease his rage…  
>Fetching a needle and thread of similar color, he leaned his cane within reach before sitting. He had a lot of work to be done before the dress would be ready to show on the floor of his shop. Today, he would work on repairing the frayed strands of cotton along the hem.<p>

The fine, sharp needle slid effortlessly through the delicate fabric. His mind flashed with the blur of color that flew through the air when she twirled in this dress. The way it fell against her curves and swished up against the smooth skin of her thighs.  
>Mr. Gold bunched the fabric in his fist like he remembered her to do before she would yank the skirt to and fro: her heels hardly touching the grass as she twisted and jerked, undulating to the deep thumping of the drums, her eyes closed in self-contained bliss.<p>

Sinking back into his chair, Mr. Gold closed his own eyes and dragged the pale mass of cloth onto his lap. He could recall the slight mist to his breath, how the stars were bright in the cloudless sky. Shadows were cast into the thick trees by the firelight, but the darkness hide him well; he had stalked her that night, eyeing from afar as she thrashed herself around the fire.  
>The heavy rhythms of the music matched the painful beating of his own heart, and his gaze followed her; his covet sending a tremble into his knees. What he wouldn't have given in that moment to feel that dress flutter about his thighs, for her legs to be wrapped about his waist, and her head to be thrown back in an ecstasy of <em>his<em> provisions.

Mr. Gold brought handfuls of the dress to his face, sucking in a deep breath. The fabric no longer smelt of her, though the memories of that fateful evening still lingered in their place.  
>A groan escaped his throat. Under those stars, he had watched her throw away her innocence to a common nomad. And with all the cursed magic at his fingertips, he did nothing to stop it.<br>He owned her loyalty, but not her heart.

A sharp prick against his clinched hand yanked his thoughts back into the present. Eyeing the tiny bead of blood that seeped from his palm, Mr. Gold wrinkled his nose and pitched the dress back onto his desk: the culprit needle—still dangling from its thread at the hem—clanked gently against the polished wood.

Suckling the blood from his palm, his gaze bore holes into the patterned drapery that separated him from the store. Every ounce of him had held back the urge to release his passion for her that night, not only out of respect for their business arrangement, but because she did not resound those affections for him.

His tie was beginning to become too tight around his throat, but he resisted tugging it loose with his finger. So many nights of anxiety would have been avoided had he confessed and gone after his desires. She was a ripe woman for the picking; all he had to have done was plucked her from vine and drunk of her sweet nectar.

A smirk twitched at his lips. _Lesson learned_, he thought to himself. This time, Mr. Gold promised, he would not restrain his cravings. He would not let this curse come between them again. His hands drew the pale green dress back into his lap and resumed their repair, adjusting his posture in the seat to accommodate him. "I _will_ have her." He growled, a rumble escaping through his chest as he thrust the needle into the cloth and tugged at the thread behind it.

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**Happily Ever After**

He moved his feet quickly, dribbling the leather football between his heels. His arms flailed about trying to keep his balance while he gently kicked the ball against the side of the house. Baelfire carefully made sure that he kept it from jumping into the street, lest another incident like yesterday occur. The guilt of his father's actions did not sit well in his stomach.

Bae frowned down at the ground, his pale cloak billowing about him from his movement. This new village that papa had chosen, albeit less impoverished, had not won his heart. They had a maid to clean and cook, and papa could conjure anything they could ever need. But Bae longed to spin wool at the wheel or sheer the sheep that used to flock in the fields behind their old house—this idea of living luxuriously sat in with him as pleasantly as heavy rocks in his gut.

Rumpelstiltskin had changed; the once loving father was now all consumed with material possessions and living a life of amenity. Not only had his papa isolated himself from their old life, but had been the cause of Bae's own isolation from the rest of his friends. Far afraid of what his father might do to any passerby that might come into contact with Bae, he played ball by himself in the shadow of his new house; the only place he might find solace.

Light chatter and footsteps around the front of the house set Baelfire on alert; he straightened his slouch, tensing. There were two voices muffled by the thick walls—and though it was impossible to understand their conversation—the divergence of their voices was unmistakable; one expressed apprehension while the other emitted poise. He could identify the more confident voice as Rumpelstiltskin, but the second presented more of a mystery.

"Bae?" His father called out.

Scooping up the leather ball into his arms, Baelfire wiped his forehead on his arm. He had to be strong now. He had to be a better man than what his father had become.

With a sigh, he started around the corner of the house and into the hot sunlight. "Yes, Papa?" He replied, eyeing the cloaked figure of his father. Rumpelstiltskin smiled at his boy and opened his arms, inviting Bae within his embrace. Baelfire shuffled forward until another familiar sight stayed his feet. The woman had been hidden a few feet behind his father.

She was in plain garb, and the expression on her face was one of curiosity and awe. Auburn hair in a tangled mess over one shoulder, she nervously stroked at it when her gaze caught his. "_Papa_?" She muttered, perplexedly looking between Rumpelstiltskin and Baelfire.

"Gwendolyn!" Bae shouted, immediately dropping the foot ball. All notions of bravery flew out the window as he rushed forward to her, totally bypassing his father. Throwing his arms about Gwen's waist, he held tight to her, squishing his face to her collarbone. When she had left the village and not returned within her promised two weeks, Bae had felt in his heart that he would never see her again.  
>Beholden for this touch of familiarity, he held her close, ever fearful that she might suddenly dissolve. He forced his eyes to open and stared around her at the gold-skinned man that called himself Baelfire's father. His gaze pleaded for Rumpelstiltskin to not take her away from him.<p>

Gwen seemed to have been taken-aback by the abrupt embrace, her arms lingering up in the air as she struggled to keep from falling back. "Bae?" She tried, her hands tentatively resting around his shoulders, stroking the shaggy head of hair that was buried against her chest.

Baelfire gently drew back enough to take her hand, mentally reprimanding himself: he probably smelled different from his stay here in this strange village, foolishly he had thought she might identify him with so few hints. Bae pressed her warm palm to his smiling cheek. "Yes, it is me." The tips of her fingers swept aside the stray locks of hair that had fallen over his eyes.

Gwen's expression instantly relaxed, but instead of her gaze wandering off to an unseen spot above his head or somewhere over his shoulder—like he knew her to—her gentle brown eyes met his.

It must have been a fluke accident; happenstance. "How did you get here?" He inquired admiringly, peering up at her, his chin in the nook of Gwen's shoulder as he brushed away the strange feeling that settled in his core. He gripped tight to the fabric of her blouse; she smelled of firewood and horse and forest—all things familiar and comforting to Baelfire. "We thought you had died."

Her smile faded and she chewed nervously on the inside of her cheek. Then, with a slow turning gaze to the man behind Baelfire, she thumbed over his shoulder at Rumpelstiltskin. Her mouth opened to explain, but no words emerged from her lips.

_Never_, in all his life, had he seen Gwen use her head to gesture at someone. Any questions bubbling to the surface about her unexpected appearance muffled in comparison to this sudden hitch in his reality. Disengaging himself from her, Baelfire reached up and pulled her face back to look at his. Her eyes locked onto his. "Can you _see_?" He whispered, praying that she'd tell him otherwise.

Baelfire's heart dropped, however, when she nodded; the slight smile on her lips tried to convince him that there was a blithe fragment of hope within her decision—but Bae knew better.

"_No_." He cried, taking a step back. Gwen reached out for him, but he evaded her hands; still reeling that her eyes no longer held vacancy. He wanted to scream out and demand how she could possibly have sight, but it was clear to Bae how it happened. "You made a deal with him, Gwen?" His father was a coward; Bae could understand the call of magic luring him in to solve all problems. But Gwen? Gwen was not a coward. Too what extent did she throw away her life in order to have the simple pleasure of sight?

"It was but for a few errands." Gwen answered calmly, drawing her gaze back to rest on Baelfire, her palms easing up to express sincerity. "I wanted to make sure you were safe." She finished slowly.

Bae felt like he should have recognized that Gwen wasn't herself as soon as he had latched onto her—peering around like a newborn child and squinting at the intruding sunlight. He been so absorbed in the bliss of Gwen's appearance that he hadn't even noticed her walking stick was not present within her hands.

"Safe?" Baelfire spat. How did having sight make any difference to her being able to discern the quality of his welfare? "You traded him for _nothing_." He forced, spitefully. It was quite obvious the reason behind Gwen's visit was not one of liberation: the thought made him cringe, but he stood up straight and forced a tough façade. He refused to be craven like them. "I _am_ alright, Gwen. Papa made sure of that." Angrily, his eyes flashed to Rumpelstiltskin.

This gave Gwen pause, her own eyes glazing over for a moment before squinting at the boy, as if trying to understand. "Your father?" She probed in disbelief and confusion, her voice faltering. "He—"

Bae could have stomped his foot; her lack of understanding set him off even more. "He _is_ the Dark One!" He finished for her, thrusting his finger at Rumpelstiltskin.

A look of shock crossed her face, and her breath hitched. Something strange fell in the air about her, as if she realized some menacing beast had slithered along at her heels. Gwen cautiously turned her gaze up to face the man—his secret no longer hidden in the dark, Bae knew that she now saw Rumpelstiltskin for who he had become.


End file.
